


Don't Let it Fall on Me

by stephanericher



Series: Black Friday [4]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: F/M, M/M, aomido week 2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:19:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another dinner with friends</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let it Fall on Me

**Author's Note:**

> aomido week day 7: free

Daiki drums his fingers on Shintarou’s thigh beneath the table, half-drowsy and fully bored with the conversation. Shintarou’s fingers cover Daiki’s and hold them still, ad his voice grows just a little bit louder as he continues to debate Satsuki about the real estate market. Daiki almost sighs, and throws a glance across the table at a similarly-bored but much more composed Kousuke. He’s probably more used to Satsuki blabbering on and on about her job, living with her and all (and having fewer years of history with her in which she wasn’t a real estate lawyers). And he’s the type to look up some of the words he doesn’t know—Daiki still has no idea what an escrow is and, furthermore, doesn’t care.   
That said, the dinner dishes won’t do themselves and a cup of coffee might at least make him feel more up to taking on this conversation.

“Anyone for coffee?” he breaks in.

“Oh, yeah,” says Kousuke; Satsuki squeezes his hand on the table and nods. 

“I put the machine on delay for approximately when I thought we’d be finishing dinner,” says Shintarou, checking his watch. “It should be done right about now.”

“That’s why I love you,” says Daiki, squeezing his hand before freeing himself from Shintarou’s grasp. “Not for your opinions on real estate.”

“Ha ha,” says Shintarou. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you sell my parents’ house,” Daiki grumbles (but not without affection). “Look at where it’s gotten you.”

He grabs the dinner plates, and as he does he can feel Kousuke glaring at his back as he leaves and Satsuki and Shintarou resume their conversation. If Kousuke wants, he can help with the dishes (guest or not, they’re close enough for it not to be an issue).

True to Shintarou’s words, the coffee machine is almost full. Waiting for it and pouring out the portions won’t take long, and he has a feeling he and Shintarou won’t really be in the mood for this after dinner—not that they’re ever particularly in the mood for doing the dishes, but now’s a better time than later (he’ll also get to miss some more boring real estate talk, for all that’s worth).   
Doing the dishes is actually pretty calming, sliding the sponge over the surfaces of plates and utensils and pans (thankfully, dinner wasn’t too complicated) under the nearly-scalding water and softness of the suds. When it’s over, Daiki surveys his accomplishments lying in the dish rack and then checks the coffee. It’s done, so he grabs four mugs and pours it out, doling the correct amounts of milk and sugar in for each person. He carries the first two (sea-green mug, no sugar and a splash of whole milk for Satsuki, and commemorative hospital wing opening mug, a little bit of sugar and nonfat milk for Kousuke) out to the dining room and places them on the table. The topic of conversation has (mercifully) shifted to basketball—probably because Satsuki takes pity on Kousuke but not Daiki and it’s easier for her to cave , and by the time Daiki brings out his own (chipped red mug, black) and Shintarou’s (tall white mug, precise amounts of milk and sugar that Daiki’s come to measure out perfectly as if it’s second nature) coffees he feels ready to join in even though he hasn’t taken a single sip. When he does, it’s still very welcome; he knows it’s just measuring out grounds and pressing a button on the machine but goddamn it, Shintarou’s got a gift.

Daiki leans his head on Shintarou’s shoulder. “Good job on the coffee,” he says.

Shintarou flushes, just a little bit but very noticeable from this close. Daiki grins up at him and then focuses his attention to Kousuke, talking about how no one in the pro leagues knows how to properly block, including the kids they went to high school with and played against. As the conversation continues, he slips his arm in through Shintarou’s elbow (there are so many advantages to Shintarou being left-handed).

It really is getting late, though, and Satsuki and Kousuke have a train to catch (one of these days, Daiki thinks, the city really should invest in 24-hour subways). They say their goodbyes and Satsuki promises to invite them over next time.

“Kousuke had better be cooking,” Daiki says (apparently, even I their mid-thirties, Satsuki isn’t above kicking him in the shins).

“You deserved that,” says Shintarou, and Daiki can’t really disagree.

“Well,” Daiki says, “You kids have fun.”

“We’re both older than you,” says Satsuki. “But I’m sure we will.”

Kousuke looks like he would very much like to smash Daiki’s face in—pushing his buttons isn’t as satisfying as it used to; he’s learned too much self-control. Instead, he nods at both Daiki and Shintarou and turns around to go along with Satsuki.

Daiki’s still leaning on Shintarou’s shoulder, arm now around his waist. “You sure that wasn’t decaf?”

“You’re just drowsy,” says Shintarou. “Caffeine won’t solve everything, you know.”

Daiki hums and lets Shintarou lead him into the kitchen. It’s true; he’s not as young as he once was; he’s sore easier and longer, tired earlier and needs more to keep him from falling asleep. Still, it’s not that late and the day hasn’t been that strenuous. 

“You did the dishes?”

“Yeah.”

“You really didn’t want to talk about real estate that much?”

“Aw, come on,” Daiki says, opening his eyes fully. “Can’t I do something nice for my boyfriend?”

Shintarou looks at him, eyebrows raised. “I suppose you can.”

His mouth is warm and wet and sweet on Daiki’s like a pastry fresh from the oven. When he pulls back, the dim kitchen lights cast beautiful shadows on his face with the angle at which they strike the cabinets. It’s nice to look at (although Shintarou never looks unappealing in some way or other), but then he shifts and the shadows change; the moment has passed and Daiki will probably forget it tomorrow. But he still has this, hands clasped in Shintarou’s, and whatever lies in front of them.


End file.
